


Over and Over

by emiliahparton



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: But come on people, I am genuinely scared about this please don't judge me, It's more about their friendship, Just be prepared for anything, Somefairly graphic gore, There's no actual romantic relationship here, Um there's a lot going on, WW2, read between the lines - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-31
Updated: 2015-07-31
Packaged: 2018-04-11 22:09:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4454210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emiliahparton/pseuds/emiliahparton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"If there's one thing he's learned out here, it's that being a good soldier isn't about skill- it's about forgetting."</p>
<p>(Or a bunch of Bucky dabbles that I stuck together and tried to make something reasonable out of.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Over and Over

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FeelsVomit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FeelsVomit/gifts).



> So this is a bunch of stuff that I've had stuck in my documents for a while and I thought I should post. I've spent a lot of time editing (because my first drafts are shocking) and putting them into some semblance of order but they're all very different and the tone swings pretty wildly from one to the next. Also, some of them are just plain weird. I mean, the porcupine thing... even I don't have an explaination for that. 
> 
> But I'd like to dedicate this (as strange as it is) to FeelsVomit, who is not only my friend but the best damn beta since sliced bread. I genuinely don't know what I'd do without her. Actually, a lot of the stuff in here is stuff that we've said to each other at some point. Look for the gay bits- that's us. 
> 
> Anyway, sorry for keeping you. Please don't judge me too harshly.

It’s 1932, and it’s hot. Bucky’s lying on his mattress, spread out over the covers, thinking that if it gets any hotter he’s gonna have to peel his own skin off to cool down. The air’s so thick that it’s a fight just to pull it into his lungs, past a throat that feels like it’s lined with sawdust. If anyone wants an indication of how hot the day is, they just have to look at the egg that fell outta his neighbour’s bag on the way to the dumpster. Literally fried. A sizzling yellow-and-white puddle on the sidewalk. He hates summer. 

He hates it more knowing that Steve’s probably camped out in the park, cross-legged under the shade of their favourite tree- the one with leaves that hang down like a curtain- sipping home-made lemonade with a sketchbook balanced on his bony knees, and feeling completely _content_. God, it’s sickening. 

He rolls over, his limbs sticking to each other, so he can look out the window. It’s so damn bright out there. The sun’s shining directly on this side of the house, creating fiery yellow squares on his floor and making the air boil. He hates this room. He hates being in here. He hates his ma. Hell, he even hates himself, a little. 

Okay, so maybe he shouldn’t have hit the kid. Or rather, he shouldn’t have hit him so hard. He should have hit him as hard he normally hits; with just enough force to push him back, leave a bruise, make his point. That’s the usual punishment for picking on Steve, isn’t it? Nothin’ those assholes don’t deserve. 

What he shouldn’t have done was punch him so hard that the kid’s arm snapped when he fell. That was a bad call. 

And that’s why he’s not allowed outta his room, not even on a roasting-hot day like this. In Bucky’s defence, the kid- Riley, his name was- was no good. Bucky had always hated him, even when he first started acting friendly towards Steve. Of course, there’s a chance that could have been because Steve appeared to like him, and Bucky may have got the smallest bit jealous. He found himself infected with the fear that Steve was going to abandon him in favour of this kid, who was just a little bit funnier, a little bit smarter, a little bit smoother… 

Okay, so maybe that was all of it. And maybe when he’d warned Steve that Riley was bad news, he might not have actually believed it himself, but the point is that he was right in the end, wasn’t he? Riley turned on Steve like everyone else; started pointing and laughing and spilling the secrets that Steve had told him in confidence (mainly about all the illnesses he gets, the ones that nearly kill him- and who’d make fun of someone for that? Only someone sick, that’s who.)

At the time, with the rage sparking in his fists, sticking in his throat like tar, he’d felt totally justified. Even when Riley was screeching on the ground, clutching his arm (which was bent at an almost comically incorrect angle), he didn’t feel nothing but triumph. _The asshole had it coming_ , he thought, as he dragged Steve away with a hand clamped over his shoulder. 

Turns out, Riley was only doing it because the kids at school had made him, and he wouldn’t stop crying about it afterwards. Even sent Steve a letter of apology- four damn pages. He sent Bucky an abridged letter too, telling him he didn’t blame him for anything- _way to make a guy feel like shit, Riley._. It also came to light that the broken arm wasn’t his only injury; Riley’s mother had been beating him for years. Not that that was any excuse, but still. 

So that’s why Bucky’s ma decided that he wasn’t leavin’ his room all summer, and Steve wasn’t allowed in the house until school started up again. 

And that's just awful, because all Bucky's got now is guilt greasing up his insides and nothing to distract him from it. 

God, it’s warm as shit in here. 

"Ma?” he calls, kicking his legs just to get the air around him moving. “Can I have some water?” There’s no response. “Please?” 

“Hold on a second, honey,” his mom calls back up, sounding more gentle than she has in weeks. He can’t remember the last time she called him “honey”. He’s fairly certain that’s a bad sign. 

He frowns, tilting his head towards the door. “Ma?”

“One moment.” 

He rolls his eyes, turning back to the ceiling as he waits for his mom to get a hold of herself. It’s not like her to sound so… pleasant. There’s the sound of the stairs creaking rhythmically, and her footsteps on the landing. After a few moments the key rattles in the door and his ma peeks round, her lips pressed together like she’s desperately trying not to smile. She ain’t got no water.

“Ma, are you okay?” Bucky asks, genuinely concerned for her sanity. 

“Have you learned your lesson?” she asks instead, with forced solemnity. It’s futile- he can tell by her face that he’s already forgiven. His ma’s tough as nails, but even she has to stop being mad sometime.

“Yes ma’am,” he says, with equal sincerity. “I won’t never hit anything again, I swear it.” 

She raises an eyebrow. “Do you swear to God?”

He holds up his hands. “On the Father, the Son, the Holy Ghost and Aunt Daisy’s grave. I’ll keep my hands behind my back for the rest of my life.” He grins at her and she smiles right back, her eyes twinkling just like his do when he’s doing something he knows he probably shouldn’t. 

"Well, in that case," she says conspiratorially, "you better put a shirt on.” 

He frowns at himself, just in his shorts, slimy with sweat. If he had to put a shirt on he’d fry. “Why?” he whines (except it’s definitely in a strong, manly way).

His mom grins wider as a high-pitched, disembodied voice says, “because I refuse to leave the house with someone who’s half naked.”

“Steve!” Bucky shrieks (again, manly) and shoots upright. Ma’s looking far too pleased with herself, so he pouts at her and tries his best to sound disappointed. “Dammit, ma. I thought you’d baked me a pie or somethin’.” 

“Don’t push it, young man,” she scolds, but she’s still smiling. She ducks out of the doorway, and as an afterthought adds, “and mind your language.” 

Grinning, Bucky climbs off his bed and goes to grab a shirt from the back of the chair. “Don’t lie to me, pal,” he calls through the door, “you were lost without me.”

“I was not,” Steve laughs, which means he was. There’s a pause, and then Steve’s voice goes all serious and uncomfortable, dropping a couple of octaves. “You’re not still beating yourself up about it, are you?” he asks. 

Bucky shrugs to himself as he does up the shirt buttons. “We all make mistakes,” he says, even though Steve doesn’t, and then shakes the thoughts from his head. “Come on, Steve, enough of that. I want ice cream.” 

***

And then it’s October 1936, and it’s dark and dusty his knuckles are split. 

“We’re dead, aren’t we?” Steve says, as he peers through the gap in his ma’s net curtains. He grimaces at the view. 

Bucky would love to deny it, but he has to admit, it looks pretty damn bad. Even by Steve’s standards, this was dumb. It’s one thing to take on one guy, but to take on five- no wonder they’re having to hide in Mrs Rogers’ tiny second floor apartment, crouching behind the kitchen cupboards and praying no one knows where Steve lives. 

“We might not be dead,” Bucky says, in an attempt to be positive. “Hopefully they’ll just maim us.” 

“Haven’t they maimed us already?” Steve says, still staring out the window. Bucky scan’s the kid’s face, littered with bruises and cuts, an eye so swollen it’s been forced shut and a red wad of tissue up his nose. It’s dark in here, and even though Bucky can’t see the black bruises on his stomach or the unhealthy twist to his ankle, he knows they’re there. 

Bucky shrugs. “Yeah, okay,” he admits. “They’re definitely going to kill us.”

Steve peels himself away from the window, sitting back against the wall with his knees up and his eyes closed. “Damn,” he murmurs, wincing as he shifts, pushing himself up on bleeding knuckles. 

"Yep." 

It’s not the blood or the wounds that make Bucky’s throat go tight- it’s the look on Steve’s face, like shame. Steve’s been beaten before, and he’s come home with worse injuries than this and Bucky’s hardly said a word, but that’s because Steve’s always been triumphant, in his own way. He may not have won (he never wins) but he’d still have his pride- most of it, anyway. 

But here they are, the two of them, hiding in the dark, staining the floor with blood, scared shitless. The sorrow he feels for his friend sits like an anvil in his chest, but he’s never been good with sincerity, so he just says, “how ‘bout a beer?” 

Steve opens one eye. “You think that’s a good idea? Gettin’ drunk right before we have to run for our lives?”

“Steve, that’s the best time to get drunk,” Bucky says, already limping towards the pantry. “That’s the whole reason liquor was invented. You think your ma would mind?” 

One of the main reasons Bucky loves Mrs. Rogers is because she keeps her house permanently stocked with at least ten bottles of Barclay’s Ale- quote, “in case of an emergency.” She downs a bottle every night, just as she’s about to go to bed, and never treats it as anything other than perfectly reasonable. Bucky has no idea how she survived prohibition. Whenever he asks her she just smiles at him and says, “it was a stupid law, anyway.”

“Nah,” Steve says, waving his hand in a sort of vague “go ahead” type gesture. “She loves you too much to care. I swear, she talks about you more than I do.” 

Bucky smiles to himself- good old Mrs. Rogers- and picks out two green bottles. He tiptoes back over to Steve, careful not to pass in front of the window, and folds himself down next to him. _We can talk about feelings later, when I’m good and pissed,_ he thinks. 

Unfortunately, Steve’s still got that look on his face- the sad, kicked puppy look- and the alcohol’s not working fast enough to stop that from hurting. 

"Alright,” Bucky says, sipping his beer contemplatively. If there’s one thing he’s good at, it’s cheering Steve up. “Would you rather spend one night with Rita Hayworth or two weeks with Peggy Carter?”

“Oh come on, Bucky,” Steve groans. “You know I hate this game.” 

“I don’t get what your problem is. It’s fun.” 

“It’s not fair. Pegs would kill me if she thought I was talkin’ about her like this.” 

“You don’t have to tell her, you know. And besides, it’s a compliment. I wouldn’t compare just any girl to Rita Hayworth.” He gives Steve a sideways glance, and when he sees the kid’s still looking miserable as sin he shoves his shoulder. It’s meant to be playful, but given their conditions it’s just hugely painful. “Just answer the damn question,” Bucky says. 

“Fine, fine,” Steve sighs, rubbing his shoulder. He takes a moment to think. “I’d go Peggy. I mean Rita would be nice but… Two weeks with Peggy Carter.” 

“Seriously?” Bucky says, eyebrows shooting up. “You’d give up _Rita Hayworth_ for two weeks with _Peggy_? Peggy from school?” He laughs. “Wow, Steve. I knew you were sweet on her but I didn’t think you had it that bad. Christ. No wonder you- Hey, are you blushing?” 

Steve twists away a little more. “’Course I’m not.”

Bucky laughs, leaning forward so Steve can see the pure glee on his face. “You are! You’re fuckin’ blushing!”

“Shut it, Buck, I am not,” Steve whines, trying (failing) to remain dignified as he swats Bucky away. “Will you stop laughing? I am _not_.” 

Bucky reluctantly stops giggling, but he doesn’t wipe the grin off his face. He refuses to feel guilty; this is just payback for when Bucky had that thing for Carmen Jones and Steve teased him mercilessly about it, instead of offering any actual advice. Admittedly, Bucky had been a complete ass about the whole thing, but that wasn’t the point. 

“Okay, okay, I’ll stop,” Bucky says, holding his hands up in surrender. “But let me know when the real pining starts- I wanna be there to hear the love poems and the sad songs and the intense descriptions of her eyes.”

Steve just looks at him. “Tell me, Buck, how’s Carmen?” he asks. “Still not into you?” 

“Oh, you think you’re funny, punk?” Bucky says, and then they just dissolve into half-crushing-half-friendly insults and crude hand gestures. 

They only stop when they hear shouting just below them, and it sounds an awful lot like the bastards have got into the building. 

“Damn—“

“Fuck—“

the two of them whisper in unison, and out of the corner of his eye Bucky can see Steve’s jaw set. They’re both tense as anything, sitting here still as stone with wide eyes and thrumming pulses, as the footsteps sound below. Bucky hears sporadic shouting as the gang clear each hall, searching for a sign of the boys. 

After twenty seconds or three hours- it’s too hard to tell- the building falls silent again, and Bucky breathes out for the first time since it started. “Christ,” he whispers, wiping his sweaty palms on his pants. 

Steve’s shoulders relax a little, and his head drops back against the wall. “Jeez, I thought they’d found us,” he breathes. There’s a pause, and Steve looks over to where Bucky’s leaning back against the wall, knees pressed to his chest. He swallows heavily. “M’sorry, Bucky,” he says, staring at his hands. 

“Oh Jesus,” Bucky sighs, shifting against the wall. Do they have to talk about this now? Do they have to talk about this _ever_? He rubs his temples. “Alright, I’ll bite. What are you sorry for?”

“For makin’ you come after me,” Steve says, and the softness of his voice breaks Bucky’s heart. “People are always sayin’ that I cause too much trouble and I never listen. And now it’s got you hurt, too.” 

It’s funny that Steve’s talking like this is the first time Bucky’s had to rescue him from being beaten to death, because that’s a damn lie, but he doesn’t point that out. “Hey, don’t be so hard on yourself,” Bucky says, softening his tone to match Steve’s a little better. “You didn’t force me to come after you- I chose to.” 

“And it could have got you killed,” Steve says, his voice shaking with the anger he feels towards himself. “Hell, the night is young- it still might.”

“Gee, don’t bother sugar coating it for me,” Bucky drawls. 

“But you know what I mean,” Steve continues. “I choose to fight those bullies- that’s my decision. But for you… I mean, I forced your hand, didn’t I?”

“They forced yours,” Bucky points out, remembering the way they’d heckled Steve from the other side of the street. 

“No, they didn’t. I could have just kept on walking,” Steve says, grimly. “That’s what everyone’s always telling me to do. Keep on walking, mind my own business. You ever think they’re right?” 

“No,” Bucky says without hesitation. “The only reason the rest of us don’t fight is because we’re too damn scared. You ain’t scared, and that’s not a bad thing, pal.”

Steve looks around the dark apartment, and laughs bitterly to himself. “It sure don’t feel like a good thing.” 

This is the argument that adults have used against him for years, but Steve’s never listened to it, not ever. And that’s what Bucky’s always liked about him- he’s got principals and he fights for them, doesn’t ever let them go. Bucky’s got no principals- his beliefs change with the seasons- but Steve… Bucky can’t help but admire that, even if he’s not quite strong enough to understand it. 

“That’s not the point, Steve,” Bucky says, slightly desperately. Steve’s never talked like this before, and Bucky’s starting to lose his footing. “It’s still the right thing to do.” 

“Not tonight- this wasn’t right,” Steve says, and then his face goes all sad and weary, all his features drooping at the edges. “I messed up.” 

“So you dropped the ball on this one. Who cares? You learn from it and move on.”

“No, Bucky. You don’t-“ He cuts himself off and chews his lip, finding the words. “If I was in the same circumstance I’d make the same mistake again and again.” 

“You’re being stupid. You’ll make mistakes occasionally- that’s natural.”

“Occasionally is not the word I’d use.”

“Oh come on, Steve. You gotta stop putting yourself down.”

“I’m not putting myself down. I’m putting myself where I belong.” 

“Mother of Christ, where are you gettin’ all this from?” Bucky asks, incredulous. He scrubs a hand through his hair. “Fuck.”

“Nowhere, I just… Jeez, Bucky. I’m sick of being looked at like I’m… one of them. Like I’m no better than those thugs chasin’ us.”

"They're scared of you, you know that?”

Steve scoffs, wrapping his arms tighter around himself. “No. They laugh at me.”

“They don’t-“

“’Course they do. Don’t patronise me, Bucky.”

Bucky sighs, leaning his head back against the wall. “Jesus, Steve,” he whispers, eyes falling shut. “I don’t know what to tell you.” 

"I don't want you to tell me anything,” Steve mumbles. “I got it wrong. That’s my problem- I’ll deal with it.”

That’s not what Steve’s supposed to say. He’s not meant to give up- it’s not what he does. He’s a fighter. If he stops fighting then he might as well stop being Steve. 

But what can he say?

He takes another long swig of his beer. “Would you rather drink four gallons of piss or shit out a porcupine?”

Steve almost chokes. “What in the name of—What’s wrong with you?”

Bucky shrugs. _How long have you got?_ “Come on, if those bastards are coming in here to slit our throats, I want our last conversation to be a good one. One that really _defines_ our friendship, y’know? Now answer- piss or porcupine?”

“I’m not doing this.”

“You are. You’re doing it because I said so.”

“I’m not in the mood,” Steve says, but he’s giggling into his beer bottle. 

“I’m not gonna ask you again,” Bucky says, all mock-severity. “Piss. Or. Porcupine.”

Steve shakes his head in disbelief, still trembling slightly with laughter. “Fine, then,” he says, running a hand through his hair. “Porcupine.”

Bucky gives Steve a sideways glance, frowning harshly. “Really?” he asks, a little incredulously. 

“What?” Steve asks. “Are you judging me?” 

“Well… yeah. A little.”

Steve’s trying not to smile and failing miserably. He gives a heavy, long-suffering sigh. “It’s a game, Bucky. There’s not supposed to be a right or wrong answer.” 

“Yeah, but this one was _obvious_. You _obviously_ don’t go with porcupine.”

Steve’s voice is high-pitched and petulant. “It’s meant to be subjective.”

Bucky points at him, putting his finger right between his eyes. “Now, see, that’s where you’re wrong. That may be the case most of the time, but now, there is only one correct answer and that’s drinkin’ the piss.”

Steve raises an eyebrow. “Please enlighten me,” he says, with obvious sarcasm. Bucky’s never been one to back down from a challenge. 

“Well, first off, have you even considered the damage a porcupine would do to your digestive system?” Steve blinks at him. “I mean, even without the spikes, that’s a live animal. It’s got claws- your intestines would be in shreds. It would essentially liquidise your insides. And porcupines aren’t small either- my aunt’s labrador was smaller than one of those things, they’re fuckin’ huge. Say goodbye to your colon, princess, because all the king’s horses and all the king’s men will _never_ be able to put that thing together again. So, let’s face it, you would definitely die from this. Without question.” 

Steve's judging him so hard it looks almost painful, but at least he’s laughing too. "Princess?" he gasps out. Bucky ignores him. 

“So you’re dead, right? But that’s not even your biggest problem. You gotta think about how you’ll loved ones will find you, okay? Because they ain’t gonna automatically assume that this has been caused by some cruel, twisted God-demon-thing who told you it was this or drink piss. All they’d see is a dead kid with a porcupine half way out his completely torn-up ass-“

“Bucky, for God’s sake!” Steve screeches, really laughing now. 

“Best case scenario,” Bucky continues, “everyone assumes you were high on whatever it is young people are smokin’ these days. Worst case, they assume you regularly, recreationally shoved helpless woodland creatures up your anus-“

“Oh my God- please stop talking.“

“Is that really how you wanna be remembered, Steve? As the kid with the porcupine fetish? Huh? Look, if you weigh it all up, it’s like this: drinking piss means you’ll be sick for a few days and you’ll probably have to go to counselling for a year or something- which is real bad, I know- but the alternative? Certain death, the ruination of your reputation as a decent human being, and to top it all off, you’ve murdered a poor, innocent porcupine. I’m just saying, if you’d thought about it properly, it would have been no contest.”

Steve carries on laughing for another five minutes before he can answer. “You’re right,” he says, a little breathlessly. “This was a _swell_ final conversation.” 

Bucky hums in agreement and takes another sip from his his bottle. Almost empty. There’s a short silence, and Bucky realises what a shame it’d be if they both died now. 

But boy, what a way to go. 

***

And soon it’s 1940, and Roosevelt’s on the wireless tellin’ everybody there ain’t gonna be no war for America. This is Europe’s problem- nothing to do with us. It’s not our job to interfere- we gotta look after our own. 

Steve disagrees, apparently. 

“So we’re-“ he coughs- “just gonna let them die out there? We’re gonna let them die for us and do nothing to help?”

Bucky knew he never should have switched on the radio. He’d hoped it would provide some kind of distraction, but he should have realised that, even at the height of sickness, Steve’s never been able to resist a chance to speak up for the little guy- even if the ‘little guy’ is an entire goddamned army. “Steve, for crying out loud,” Bucky says wearily. “You’re meant to be resting your voice. Shut the hell up.”

“Yeah, I know, but we can’t just sit here, waiting for the Nazis to attack, while the rest of the world suffers,” he croaks, still somehow managing to sound indignant. He coughs again. “What happened to being the home of the brave, huh?”

Bucky lies back, sinking slightly into the mattress and sighing heavily. He stares past the ceiling, right into the proverbial heavens and prays that one day, _one day_ , Steve will learn to shut his fucking mouth. 

Steve sips his hot water and continues. “I mean, what if the Nazis win? What if they win and they get the whole of Europe?” Another cough. “Who’s gonna save us when the whole of Europe comes down on our head, because we sure as hell won’t be able to save ourselves. This policy of-“

“Jesus Christ, will you _stop_?” Bucky groans, throwing an arm over his eyes. “You’re sick. D’you know what you’re supposed to do when you’re sick? Rest. Go to sleep. Let your immune system do its job. What you are _not_ supposed to do is try to save the world, okay? So lie down, close your eyes and _stop talking_.”

Steve glares at him, his lip curling. “But you-“

“No,” Bucky says, doing his best to copy the tone his mother used to use. “I refuse to hear another word about the war, you got that?”

Steve huffs, hunching his shoulders and wrapping his hands around the mug. “That’s exactly the kind of apathy that got the Nazis in power in the first place,” Steve mumbles. There’s a moment when Bucky thinks that’s all that’s gonna be said on the matter, but then Steve adds, “and it’ll win them this war, too, if we ain’t more careful. I refuse to-”

He’s interrupted by a flurry of coughs, shaking him from the inside out. The whole room rattles, and the mug of water slips from his fingers and drenches the bed sheets. Bucky lurches forward and wraps his arm around Steve’s shoulders, steadying him and rubbing between his shoulder blades until the fit stops. Steve coughs so hard that something comes up, and it’s red and solid and it reminds Bucky of what took Mrs. Rogers, God bless her soul. They both stare at it for a few of seconds, as the fear crawls under Bucky’s skin.

Well. Shit. 

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” he says, as brightly as he can manage, and Steve nods in the same kind of overly-cheery, not-at-all-terrified way. 

It’s not like Steve isn’t used to having coughing fits- because goddamn, that kid is always hacking up something- but this one’s bad news. Blood means things are only going to get worse. It means the next few months are going to be hard- well, harder than they already are. It means this thing’s serious. 

But Bucky’s not one for doom and gloom. There’s nothing they can do now but wait for the storm to hit, so he just has to carry on as normal and keep on living like nothin’s changed. 

He gets Steve dried and changed, replaces the blankets, and then reclaims his seat on the end of the bed. “The thing is,” he says, completely casual, like the last ten minutes never happened, “there’s every chance that the Allies can fight this thing on their own, and if that’s the case then where’s the point sending our own troops in?”

There’s a moment when their eyes meet, and Steve shoots him this soft, grateful smile before he switches to feigned annoyance. “Oh come on, Bucky. You really think the Allies can handle this whole war on their own?” he croaks. 

Bucky shrugs. “It’s not impossible.”

“It sorta is.”

“Well sure, with that attitude they’re bound to lose.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “So you’re saying we don’t get involved _at all_?”

He shrugs again. “Why risk it?” 

“That’s selfish,” Steve says, only wheezing a little. 

“People could die, Steve.”

“People are already dying. Just because we can’t see it doesn’t mean it isn’t happening.” He coughs quietly into his palm and then re-folds his arms. “This is exactly America’s problem. I swear, the-“ another cough- “gates of Hell could burst open, and we wouldn’t give a damn so long as it was happening overseas.” 

“That’s a little dramatic, don’t you think?” Bucky says. “What if I don’t wanna fight Nazis?”

Steve frowns, genuinely confused. “Why would you not want to fight the Nazis?”

“Fine,” Bucky says, throwing his hands up in mock-frustration. “Fine, you go over to Europe. You squat in your trench and eat shit and run into bullets. You have fun. Meanwhile, I’ll stay here and drink your beer, okay?”

Steve must be too tired to argue his case anymore, because he just blinks and puts on this weary little smile. “Sure, I don’t need you. Bet you a nickel I could defeat the whole German army on my own.”

Bucky laughs. “You’re on.” He stands up and starts straightening out the blankets, tucking the kid in as subtly as he can. “If you’re gonna stand for the whole American army, though,” he continues, “you better look the part. I want to see you in red, white and blue- head to fucking toe.”

Steve huffs a laugh. “Not great for camouflage is it?” 

“Nah, well. America’s never been one for subtlety, has she?” He grins at Steve, who just rolls his eyes. “Aw, you could have a shield, too, with a big star painted on it.“

Steve can’t really help his sleepy little grin. “Okay, shut up-“

“And a big ol’ ‘A’ for America printed on your forehead.”

"That might be taking it a bit far.”

"You wouldn't even need a gun- just the flag and your star-spangled self. Ooh, and maybe a bald eagle.”

“Are you done?”

Bucky can’t help smirking at Steve’s irritation- not that he’s sadistic, or anything. “Just about,” he says, making his way towards the door. His hand hovers over the light switch. “I’d get some sleep, pal. You’ve got an army to take on.”

He can hear Steve shuffling about on the mattress. “Yeah. Thanks Bucky.”

He glances at the floor, traps his bottom lip between his teeth. “No problem,” he says. “Night, Steve.”

“Night.”

***

And then it’s 1942, Italy, and Bucky sees a kid with no face. 

Italy, like the rest of Europe, apparently, is wet and cold and smells like dead things. This whole damn continent is dead, as far as Bucky’s concerned. The only living things he’s seen since he got here have been other soldiers, and they all look dead or wish they were, so it’s hardly a huge improvement. 

And then he sees this thing- this thing that makes being one of the living that little bit harder. 

He's a boy- a Nazi boy, but a boy nonetheless- with leaves plastered to his uniform and flies swarming what's left of his skull. He's sprawled out on his back, like he's been shoved in the chest and hasn't bothered to get back up, and his calf's split in the middle, bones meeting at perpendicular angles. There's blood everywhere, and it stinks. The air’s thick with that sweet, familiar smell; rot and waste and gore. 

The boy looks like any other wounded soldier from the neck down- same old uniform, same old wounds. 

But his face. God, his fucking _face_. 

It's a mess of pink and red and white, so torn that muscle and bone and brain have all bled into each other. There's some kind of clear liquid that might have once been an eye, or maybe it's just water- Bucky’s not brave enough to take a closer look. He can see a couple of teeth but they look to be in the wrong place. There’s this little tube-thing stretching down what he guesses was once an eye socket, and Bucky can’t tell whether it’s a vein or a ligament or just some kinda European worm. 

Either way, he would not wanna be that guy in the morning. 

It's disgusting, sure, but it's nearly a blessing. Without the face it feels less personal, like he's never really been human. It’s easier to pretend that there’s no one waiting for him back home; easier to write him off as Nazi scum and not give him another thought. He deserved it, didn’t he, for wearing that badge? Maybe that's how the Allied infantry managed to kill someone so young- by taking off his face first. 

Bucky tries not to look too hard as he passes. He already knows the depths humanity will sink to- he doesn't need reminding. He thinks it's just another dead young soldier- hardly a rarity- and he feels sorry for him in the kind of numb, abstract way he feels for everyone here. His detachment is a blessing, and he knows full-well that without it he wouldn’t have lasted a week. If there’s one thing he’s learned out here, it’s that being a good soldier isn’t about skill- it’s about forgetting. He’ll forget him like he forgets everyone else- just another atrocity to add to the list. 

But then the Nazi moves. 

His head turns, so slowly, so painfully, and for a moment Bucky thinks it must have been a trick of the light. But then the kid makes this noise, like he's drowning but with a soft, sad tilt to it, and some of the blood on his face bubbles. 

He's breathing, then. He's still alive. They destroyed his face and they broke his leg and they left him alive. 

And apparently the whole of Italy isn’t dead after all. Not enough of it. 

For a moment Bucky can't move. The kid's skinny and sickly-looking, with remnants of matted blonde hair, and he could be anyone in the world, or he could be-

But then he snaps back to reality, and he takes out his pistol and puts three bullets in the Nazi's skull. It’s a waste of ammo, probably, but he’s not taking any chances. 

Hare hears him sobbing in his tent that night, but he doesn’t say anything. That’s not how they do things here. Bucky bites down on his pillow, digs his nails into his palms until the tears subside- and in the morning he kills four men and doesn’t feel a single goddamn thing. 

***

And then it’s November 1943, and Bucky opens his eyes in Zola’s surgery. 

He doesn’t want to wake up here, but he’s come to learn that he has no choice; he’s here whether he fights it or not. It’s best not to struggle. He expects to see men with masks over their faces, long white coats, needles and scalpels and drills instead of fingers. He expects blinding lights and screaming, mayhem behind his eyes. He expects pain. 

Instead what he sees is a pair of bright blue eyes and messy blond hair, an uncovered face- Steve’s face, Jesus, that’s _Steve’s face_ \- and the relief he feels in that moment is dizzying; makes his vision swim. No knives, no tubes, no needles. No gloved hands or foreign voices. He’s fairly certain he’s dreaming but he doesn’t fucking care, because this is the first good dream he’s had in weeks. 

"Steve," he says, and his friend smiles back at him. 

Three hours, several gun fights and a thirty mile walk later, the pair are lying in the infirmary on adjacent beds, and Bucky’s trying his best to fight off the doctors. 

He won't tell Steve what happened. He decided this on the trek back to camp, with his arm around Steve’s huge, alien shoulders. Steve doesn’t need that worry, not now. They’ve got a war to win, and sharing those thoughts ain’t gonna help any of them, least of all Steve. No, Steve’s happy not knowing, and he doesn’t have to know, so he damn-well won’t. 

(Besides, there’s a part of Bucky- a stupid, irrational part, but a part of him all the same- that’s ashamed of what they did to him. He knows none of it was his fault, logically, but the nausea at the back of his throat every time he thinks about what they did to him on that table says otherwise. They were only saying it to mess with his head, he knows- he _knows_ \- but there’s a quiet, visceral voice that believes, with frightening certainty, that they were telling the truth, that he’s nothing, that this is all because of him, that it only happened because he refused to comply-)

“You gotta let them look you over, Bucky,” Steve says. His tone- so warm and precise, like he’s a fucking child- makes Bucky’s hands turn to fists. “Please, they’re trying to help.”

“I don’t need it,” he insists, as a nurse timidly steps forward with a clipboard. He glares at her. “You hear that, miss? I’m fine.”

Steve huffs. "You could be hurt."

“I’m not.”

“How are we supposed to know that?”

“Trust me, I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine,” Steve says, a little more harshly than before. “Bucky, I- I saw that place. What they did to you in there, the experiments-“

The word makes him flinch so hard the nurse takes a step back. “Shut it, Steve,” he hisses. “You don’t know anything. I’m tellin’ you, I’m okay.”

“No, Buck-“

“You ever think that maybe I’m sick of doctors poking at me?” he says, baring his teeth at Steve and praying that he understands. “Jesus. Maybe I’ll feel a little better when people stop tryin’ to cut me open.” 

There’s a flicker of recognition, then, and Steve offers him the smallest of nods. He shares a hopeless look with the nurse; a glance that says, _he’s a lost cause, don’t worry about it_ , and she gives Bucky one last half-hearted smile before she scurries away, out between the beds. 

“Jeez,” Steve mutters, not quite to himself. “They really did a number on you, didn’t they?”

Bucky winces. 

There's a pause, and he looks over to where Steve's lying face up on the mattress, dangerously alert, breathing heavily, exhausted and injured and angry. He traps the skin on the back of his lip between his teeth and bites down. “Sorry,” Bucky says quickly, getting the word out before he can stop himself. “For gettin’ you into this, I mean.” 

Steve frowns at him. “What in hell are you talking about?” he says, even though he damn-well knows. Bucky feels even worse now that he has to spell it out. 

"It wasn't your fight,” Bucky says, staring resolutely at the ceiling. “They weren’t after you. They wanted me, and that’s it.” 

Steve scoffs. “For Christ’s sake, Buck. I wanted to help. I’m not gonna let you get yourself killed out there.” 

The role reversal is a little unsettling, to be honest. That’s supposed to be his line. “If it weren’t for me, you’d still be back at home. Don’t pretend otherwise.”

“Bucky-“ Steve starts but then he cuts himself off. He knows he can’t lie to Bucky, not after all this time. “I had to do it. You’re my friend- it’s sorta my duty.” 

"It's dumb, is what it is," Bucky snaps. “You could have gotten yourself killed.”

“So could you,” Steve points out, all too rationally. 

“You could have gotten _both of us_ killed,” Bucky amends, glaring at the gracelessly tiled ceiling. There’s a brown stain above him, and he wonders how bad someone has to be hurt to get their blood sprayed all the way up there. 

“But I didn’t,” Steve says, and he smiles even though Bucky can tell he’s really trying not to. 

Bucky’s still pissed. “You can’t keep doing that, Steve. You just can’t. Out here the bad guys won’t just hit you- they’ll blast your fucking face off.” 

“Think I don’t know that?” Steve says, all lightness gone from his voice. He shakes his head. “I couldn’t just leave you back there.”

And this is getting too dark for Bucky’s liking. He doesn’t want to talk about _back there_ any more than he wants to set his eyeballs on fire. “Then you’re an idiot,” Bucky says. 

“You expected me to turn my back on you?” Steve asks. He sounds almost angry, like Bucky’s wronged him with his assumption. “Really?”

If Bucky’s honest, he never expected Steve to stay friends with him for this long. It used to baffle him when Steve would drop round of his own accord, or invite him over in the evenings. He’s always thought Steve would grow away from eventually, get sick of him. One day, he’d wake up and Steve would have decide that he had better things to be doing than standing around listening to Bucky’s boring old stories, and Steve would push him away. He’d be kind about it, though, always kind, making sure he didn’t hurt Bucky’s feelings. He’d start by turning down invitations, make up little white excuses, not laughing at his jokes so much. That’s what Bucky had been bracing himself for for years. When he went to war, Bucky assumed that was it- this was Steve’s easy way out. Bucky would get blown up somewhere and Steve wouldn’t have to be stuck with him anymore. 

For him to come across the world, to be injected with God knows what, to dive into a secure enemy base just to get Bucky out… Well. 

So yeah, Bucky _had_ expected Steve to turn his back on him. 

“No,” he says. “No, but Jesus, Steve. Don’t you think that was a little… dramatic?”

“Dramatic is what we do,” Steve says, dismissively. “And you’d do- you did- the same for me. We’re friends, Bucky. It’s in the job description.” 

Bucky still thinks he’s being dumb. He doesn’t understand what Steve can’t _see_. “But to come all the way out- and dressed like a goddamn cartoon character while you’re at it…” Bucky huffs, shaking his head. “You’re not just risking yourself, but you’re risking Captain fucking America. There’s lot of me, Steve- I’m just canon fodder. There’s only one of you.” 

“Don’t you say that, Buck,” Steve growls, pushing himself up onto his elbows. “Don’t you dare say that when you know it ain’t true.”

“Come on. Be realistic.”

“Do you really think…?” He trails off, shaking his head incredulously. “Christ Almighty- do I have to come over there?” Steve says, with genuine anger on his face. It’s ten times scarier now, now that he’s ten times bigger. “Because I damn-well will, if I have to. Jesus. Who told you that, Buck? Who said that to you?” 

Bucky rolls his eyes, trying to be mad but he’s secretly relieved that Steve’s just as headstrong as he always was, even when he looks nothing like the old Steve from the neck down. “Alright, calm down, pal,” he drawls. “You don’t gotta strain yourself.” 

Steve sighs, stretching his legs and wincing. He takes a steadying breath, closing his eyes for a moment, before he speaks in even, measured tones. “Look, the way I see it,” he says, “it was either my life or yours.”

This makes Bucky stop, horror coiling in his stomach, guilt crawling under his skin. He speaks in the same voice; flat, calm. “And you chose mine?” he asks. 

Steve won’t look at him, just stares at the ceiling. “I couldn’t have let you die,” he says, eerily solemn. “I can’t be happy unless you are.”

“That’s moronic.”

“Yeah, well. Apparently I’m as moronic as I am stubborn.” 

Bucky huffs a laugh despite himself. "You’re damn right you are.” They fall into silence, and Bucky spends the time staring up at the ceiling, willing himself to say something. “My point is, thanks. You didn’t have to do that, but you did. And I’m grateful.” 

“You’re my best friend. There’s a lot I’d do for you.” 

They share a look, then, the same look they’ve been sharing since they were fifteen years old, and Bucky thanks God above that Steve’s still Steve, under all the show and muscle. 

“If we keep on talking like that, people are gonna start making assumptions,” Bucky says, raising an eyebrow. 

“Oh… _fuck off_ ,” Steve laughs, turning back towards the ceiling tiles, and they spend the rest of they day giggling in the infirmary, being exactly what they always were. 

***

And then Bucky’s falling to his death in Austria. They never find a body.

***

And then it’s two days later, and Captain America drops his plane into the ice. 

***

And then it’s 1963 and 1975 and 1978, and seven high-ranking politicians are murdered in their beds. He doesn’t remember doing it, but then again, he isn’t meant to. If there’s one thing he’s learned out here, it’s that being a good soldier isn’t about skill- it’s about forgetting.

***

And then it’s 2014, and Bucky Barnes remembers.


End file.
